To Be a Bookman
by blob80
Summary: One-shot. One-sided love. —Lavi/OC— Her love for him wasn't the all-consuming, heart-staggering kind that made people's insides ache. Nor was it powerful enough for her to leave what she'd always known behind. Or maybe it was—and it had just never been given the chance to blossom. She didn't know, and from the looks of it, she never would.


_Disclaimer: I don't own D. Gray Man._

* * *

A/N: **3K word request.** One-sided love. LaviXOC.

I'm going to say this now, so please don't give me grief about it in the reviews. I honestly don't know if there are more people in the Bookman clan, but after reading the Wiki, I found that no one else is sure either, so I just decided to go with my thoughts on how there are more Bookman out there. I don't know if they mentioned it in the manga or not, since I don't read it, but it would be cool if you guys could tell me if there were. The Bookman I repeatedly mention here doesn't necessarily mean Lavi's Master, I'm either talking about the OC's own Master or another one entirely.

Lavi—and those with his specific brand of… nice guy—as many of you will be able to tell, isn't exactly my forte. Neither are the Bookman's neutral stances. Throughout this entire fic, I was practically itching to write a section where Tyki tells my OC that she has to be a woman before anything else, but then I'd remember Monet, and then I'd just get terribly depressed.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this fic. **Feel free to visit my accounts across the net (IG, Wordpress, Tumblr) for more stories.**

* * *

 _To Be a Bookman © blob80_

…

 _My job is grand,_

 _Honored and enviable, never once bland,_

 _I worked hard for this place,_

 _Tried my best in life's race,_

 _So, I deserve this here spot,_

 _Everything around it, too,_

 _Now, come, watch me seize the throne,_

 _Watch me claim my golden crown—_

 _Where jewels and gems within are sown,_

 _Wait, what's that you ask?—what's it for? you say,_

 _Well, that's quite simple, really,_

 _This crown is for fools, for cowards,_

 _For the neutral, for the liars,_

 _And, of course, for me—_

 _I worked hard for it._

* * *

Her fingers slipped along the spines of the many novels lining the shelves, some had become so overburdened over time that a few of the later books had to be settled on the ground, where they'd grown into piles, and those piles into heaps, and those heaps into miniature sections themselves that one of the more organized bookman tacked a little note upon to remind others what was buried within. _History 1C, Innocence A4,_ she read, as she walked past them, moving into a particularly dusty corner of the archives that were filled with volumes of forgotten history. Most of the tomes here were age-old and dusty and, in her opinion, tales better off unremembered.

They were bloody. Every single one of them. Down to their pages. The quills used to write them had practically bled their ink out, as if they were weeping at the words.

But… Bookman weren't allowed opinions.

Certainly not about history. Bookman were meant to sit, watch, record, and be on their way—regardless of what was happening around them. And that was why she simply placed the book back in its home without so much as a frown. Another time recorded, another one to be put to rest. The story would continue to repeat itself in the pages, forever bloody, forever retelling the tale of a man whose lover was ripped away from him by the ignorance of his family. He couldn't save her and she wanted to die and he was too selfish to let that happen and—she stopped herself. There was no use in mulling over what was already past, there wasn't anything she could do to change it.

All she could do was move onto the next.

She was behind on her reading, and Bookman would be angry with her if she didn't continue. Grabbing the next text on the shelf, she jumped in surprise when someone blew a stream of hot breath into her ear.

"Haaa," a distinctly male voice said from behind her. She could practically hear his grin. "It's you again."

She turned with a start, one kind green eye meeting her own darker ones. He gave her a smile that put roguish to shame, yet he was still able to grin cutely at her— _somehow_. His red mane seemed to defy gravity, as he ran a hand through it, and it sprang right back up. He was Bookman, too, and very interesting. Extremely memorable. Not because of her near perfect memory, but because it was hard to forget a man that screamed _Strike!_ to himself whenever he happened upon an exceptionally beautiful woman.

"Bookman," she greeted gently, though he was still an apprentice like her.

"Deak," he corrected. Though she wasn't sure why. He'd be changing it soon enough. His uncovered eye widened when she shook her head, as if scolding him.

"Bookman," she said, more firm this time.

Deak merely smiled, scratching his cheek and shrugging the girl off. He wasn't about to tell her, _no._ He'd be an official Bookman soon enough. Some more studying, a few more years of travel, and he'd achieve his lifelong dream. If anyone asked him, he'd say that he was more than ready, but that was just mindless boasting. In his head, he knew that he wasn't. He knew that he had so much more to learn, too. And that was why he still actively visited the archives. Because the Bookman Clan constantly added stories here. A part of him wished they'd stop. He still had to catch up to all of the older ones.

He stepped past her, taking a book three volumes before her own from the shelf and noting just how far behind the two of them were on their reading. Deak had seen a few other apprentice Bookman already two shelves over. Damn that Panda for taking hours off his day with his non-stop lectures.

Deak held the book up for the nameless girl to see.

"Any good?" he asked.

"Bloody," she said with a frown, then shook her head in self-reprimand. "I'm sorry, yes, it's history—it's… fine. An informative read. I'm sure you'll find it enlightening."

"What about that one?" he asked, pointing at the one she'd just replaced. Her frown seemed to intensify at the question, and he found himself staring at the corners of her lips. They were pulled so far down her face, it seemed almost deliberate. A decidedly strange sight.

"That one's enlightening as well."

"Enlightening, huh?" he trailed off, staring at it. "Maybe I'll start with that one?"

"It's up to you."

"That one it is," he said, grabbing it from the shelf and grinning charmingly at her. "Thank you… uhm…" he trailed off, staring meaningfully at her.

Realizing he wanted to know her name, her eyes widened and she took a step back, eyeing him strangely once again. "Bookman," she supplied, as if it should have been obvious—honestly, it really should have. Was he really this dense? How did he ever become a Bookman's apprentice? To be under the tutelage of a Bookman required a certain openness. Not to say that he wasn't open, but he was… thick in certain ways. Like his need for names. Or maybe it was an act—no, it _had_ to be. She wouldn't be able to accept it otherwise.

"Bookman, right," he muttered, seeming to deflate at her words. The sight was so bizarre, it had her staring. His shoulders drooped and his spine curved downward, a gloomy air somehow just appeared out of nowhere and descended full blast around his entire form. As he let out the most dramatic sigh she'd ever heard anyone utter.

"Bookman," she said with a careful nod, actually afraid he'd break from her words.

Thankfully, he didn't.

"Well, we can't _both_ be Bookman. That would just be confusing!"

She fell silent, staring at him for the span of a moment and an age, before nodding in agreement. She pointed to herself, saying, "Miss Bookman."

Deak stood ramrod straight, his one-eyed gaze more optimistic than what should be allowed for someone, as he nodded his head enthusiastically. " _Miss_ Bookman then," he said. He was really starting to hate the word. "It was nice seeing you again."

She watched him go without much thought, her eyes naturally trailing after him until his bright red hair was long out of sight.

He didn't look back.

* * *

The man was stunning.

That was what she later noticed, as she flitted around the archives for the next few weeks, catching up on all she'd missed while travelling with her Master. He was there, too. Apparently in the same boat. As he read through the books before her at a steady pace. And by the time they found themselves on the next shelf, the rest of the apprentices were, too. It was infuriating. It seemed the only way to catch up would be to somehow increase their reading speed overnight or if the rest of the apprentices collectively journeyed away with their own—seemingly—reclusive Masters. Both solutions were impossible.

But at least she was able to observe her new companion.

And each time she looked at him, she couldn't help but think that God had really rolled up his sleeves during his creation. Bright, multi-faced personality, auburn hair, and a dash of whatever poison he used for gorgeous people. Wait, no, scratch that. God must've poured the whole damn bottle in, and thought to himself, ' _Oh, I'm feeling good today. Let me make someone devastatingly beautiful in celebration.'_ His jawline could break hearts and that grin—oh, heaven help her—had no one else _seen_ that grin? How was this man still single? How were women actually able to ignore him in preference for someone else? For heaven's sake, even his personality was adorable!

And… she was gushing. In front of him. How embarrassing.

"Miss Bookman," he called, tilting his head at the ditzy woman—yes, ditzy—because she was, right? He'd been waving his hand in front of her for the past two minutes. Couple that with the fact that she never told him her name and how her head was always up in the clouds, floating along like she had no conscious awareness of time. Perhaps she didn't. He wouldn't be surprised.

"I once went by Beans," she suddenly said, before her entire face seemed to explode at the revelation. Even her ears were red.

And Deak couldn't help but laugh loudly at her expense. "You're _joking,_ " he exclaimed, holding his stomach and somehow laughing louder when the blush suddenly spread to her neck. He was going to die. He was sure of it.

A few of the other Bookman came by to see what was going on, some even shushed him, but he paid them no mind. Only continued laughing until he found the will to stop… a solid fifteen minutes later.

"You weren't joking," he said, sounding horrified.

She smiled, shaking her head ruefully.

"Well, I don't think I can call you Beans. It's… _wrong._ "

"I'd prefer it if you didn't."

They grinned at each other. And she didn't know if it was because she'd been in the archives too long or she really needed to talk to other people, but his smile was such a bright thing. Easy, gentle, and oh, so kind. She loved everything about it. From the way it tilted the left part of his face a bit higher than the right, to the way it crinkled his only visible eye in pure joy. He was such a real man for someone destined to forever hide behind fake names.

"Y'know," he said excitedly, "I'll be heading out again with the old Panda soon."

"Hmm…" she hummed, only half-listening to him. As she busily ran her fingers along the spines of a particularly long line of books. They detailed some kind of three hundred year war—something she really didn't feel like reading. Deak, however, seemed interested in the topic. "Where will you go?"

Deak shrugged. "I don't know actually. Need to grab the details from the old man. You'll visit me though, right?"

She looked at him then, surprised. He seemed excited by the thought of her going to see him, his eyes speaking of friendship and hope. The sort easily mistaken—had they not possessed her ability to observe. It didn't help that his words were easily mistakable as well. His kindness was almost unreal, but so was his callousness. And she didn't quite know what to make of the contradiction.

"If I can?" she replied, her tone questioning. Though he didn't seem to mind.

"Great!" he told her, grinning widely.

For a man that loved women, he really was thick.

* * *

"Wooow!" Deak clapped, bending down to squint at her. She wore a form-fitting dress today. Nothing fancy, but certainly different from her usual clothes. In fact, they'd both gone under a bit of wardrobe change. He'd swapped his clothes for the silver trimmed Exorcist garb that he was sure would be worth a pretty penny in any market—how they had the funds to produce such things was a mystery to him. There must've been better uses for all the money that went into their coats, and from what he'd seen of Exorcists, none of them— _not one_ —took care of their clothes. Him, included.

"Bookman," she said, turning, before shaking her head and correcting herself. He'd pleaded with her numerous times to start calling him by his aliases. And she hated disappointing him. "Deak."

"It's Lavi actually," he told her with his trademark grin, watching as she took the sudden change in stride, rolling the name off her tongue a few times to get used to it. He laughed when she overemphasized the ' _a,'_ making her tongue slide unnaturally into the final syllable. A mistake she seemed to notice and tried to fix. To no avail.

"It doesn't suit you," she said instead, saying _Deak_ and _Lavi_ twice more, and staring up at him, as if to compare his looks to them.

"It will," he assured. "Give it a week or two." She only nodded in response, and he looked down at her again. "What's the occasion? You're all dolled up."

"I had dinner."

Lavi immediately placed a hand over his chest, rubbing the area just above his heart. "Oh, that hurts to hear. With who?"

"Alone," she said, smiling at his antics.

"Ah!" he cried. "That hurts even more!"

"You're impossible."

He dropped the mock tragic look on his face for something more like him. "I try. Reaallly hard."

"I can see that," she said, dramatically rolling her eyes and making sure he saw it. He rolled his eyes right back.

"So," he began, "what have you been up to lately, Miss Bookman?"

"Well, I read the most interesting tale last week about a man's soul trapped in the body of his past self and another one about foxes. Oh! And there was one about a martial artist forced inside the body of a baby. The ending made me spill my coffee right over the pages. Bookman made me rewrite the entire thing."

"These were… fiction?" he asked, laughing at her misfortune.

"Well, yes. I can't exactly bring books from the archives out with me."

"You still read when you're out on assignments?" he questioned, grabbing her shoulders and shaking them roughly, trying to knock sense into her obviously malfunctioning brain. "Is there even free will up there?! Hellloooo?"

She only stepped back and grinned. Not quite sure herself. Sure, she was allowed to do what she wanted and say what she wished, but when it came down to it, when the important decisions sat before her and history was to be made, she had to remain neutral. As all good record keepers should, in order to keep history as close to fact as possible.

 _Free will,_ she thought, _were Bookman even allowed such a thing?_

* * *

Of course they weren't.

Lavi knew that, she knew he did. Yet when she made good on her promise to visit him—more like he happened to be going in the same general direction as her for one or two days—she was surprised to find him… different. He'd grown to care about his companions, that much was obvious. And it was one of the most dangerous things that could happen to a Bookman, it made it harder to sit back and watch the world pass by when there were people that his mind demanded he protect.

And during the two days she spent by his side, as they travelled, she found herself watching him more than usual. He'd introduced her to quite a number of interesting characters, offering a hastily conjured name—Rin? She wasn't sure. Maybe Rin.—as if that's what he'd called her all his life. She'd met white-haired boy with a tattoo along his face, a Japanese man with an awful snarl, and a young woman with the bluest hair she'd ever seen. They were all decidedly gorgeous in their own ways, and she wondered if perhaps becoming an Exorcist required a certain… look. She wouldn't be surprised.

It was strange to see Dea—Lavi among the Exorcists. He smiled more than usual and his eyebrows pinched together less. He was obviously comfortable around them, and it was in that moment, when he was waving a hand in front of her face to try and snap her back to attention that she realized, he'd actually become Lavi in a sense. The man she knew, the one with roguish smiles and a terrible infatuation for women was still there—that was his usual personality after all, perhaps the truest one—but it was as if he'd slipped too far into his mask.

And then he stopped taking it off altogether.

She wondered if he noticed. Probably not. Or maybe he did, and he was waging an internal war with himself every single day, quietly dreading the time when he'd be forced to choose between Bookman and Exorcist. She couldn't be sure, and she didn't want to assume. That went against everything she'd ever been taught.

And because she was observant and oh, so attentive when it came to him, she could see his feelings for the bluenette as clearly as if he'd yelled them across the room, then slapped her across the face with a big, heart-shaped box of chocolates. It was a… distressing thought. One she certainly felt awful about. Jealous, very miserable, and even happy, too. Somewhere in the deeper parts of her mind, where her conscience told him that he seemed content just being by the blue-haired woman's side. And that this was for the best. She shouldn't have been so focused on him anyway. She couldn't afford that kind of distraction… or weakness.

For a long while, she truly believed he thought the same way, too.

But then she'd happened upon him during one particularly quiet evening in the Bookman Clan's archives, with his chin in hand, staring blankly at some sort of beautiful pin instead of reading the piles of book stacked on his side—and she knew. She could see it. He was falling to one side because of the blue-haired girl with the kind eyes and gentle smile that didn't seem to care very much for his words—perhaps because he gave them away so freely. That was definitely his fault.

"A lover's?" she asked, startling him out of his seat. As he turned to stare up at her with his hand on his heart and an entirely too wide smile gracing his lips. He pocketed the pin in one fluid motion, effectively hiding it from her.

"Don't scare me like that," he said, giving her a childish pout. Not answering her question. She didn't force him to.

"I didn't mean to."

"Jeez, Miss Bookman. What are you still doing up anyway?"

"I came to return this," she said, holding up an exceptionally heavy tome for him to see. It was hand-written, the ink blotchy and thick and made harder to read under the dim light. "Is everything okay?"

He smiled that grin again, the one that showed too much teeth. "That old man gave me all these books to read— _by tonight._ Can you believe that? Does he think I can work miracles?"

"I'm sure you'll be able to handle it," she said confidently. "It's only for tonight. Get through the next few hours and you'll be good as new. The sun has the tendency to offer fresh perspectives."

She wasn't sure if she was still talking about his books, but he didn't question her words. Didn't even tilt his head in that normal mock confused façade that he usually put on when discussions took a particularly serious turn. He only nodded, offered her a seat across from him, then cried real tears of joy when she offered to read a few of the books and summarize them for him.

And so she stayed on the sidelines, utterly neutral to his affairs. Lingering when he was down, but never overstaying her welcome. Giving him a nudge when he needed it, though certainly not during times she knew he'd be making any grand decisions. She stayed by his side and kept him company during late nights and early mornings in the annals. Sometimes he'd vent about his problems and she'd sit and listen until he was finished. Others, they'd talk about pasts that weren't theirs and stories they only found in books. And by the end of it, he'd grin widely at her until she smiled back.

She wondered if he noticed her presence. If he took the time to think about her during days when he was feeling particularly alone and she wasn't there to sit with him—maybe, maybe not. But she hoped he did. The small, girlish part of her that wanted to be noticed, before it was cruelly crushed by the other side that reminded her of what she'd always wanted in life. Of what her position meant. She wondered though, if he turned around and saw her, maybe even started pursuing her the same way he did the young Chinese woman with the nice smile, would she turn her back on everything she'd known in life?

She didn't know, a part of her was glad that she'd never be able to. While the other was disappointed for the exact same reason.

For now, however, and for the foreseeable future, she'd continue her life. Lingering, observing, sitting by his side, until he made a decision to either continue this life or fall off the wheel and chase after what he wanted. She was sure he'd get it, he seemed like the type—and he certainly deserved everything the world had to offer him because he was kind. And though he was a liar, he wasn't a very good one when it came to his feeling. But on the off-chance that he didn't get what he wished for, then she'd help him back up. She'd be there for him so long as her position allowed it.

Until the time came for her to close his book and move onto the next.

Because that was her job, her burden, and the duty of all those that held the title, Bookman.

* * *

A/N: **READ THE FIRST AUTHOR'S NOTE.** I know 95% of you skipped it. If you're into this fandom, I have another fic for it titled, "The Embalmer".


End file.
